


Décolletage

by reserve



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: But the Hand-Wavey Kind, Exhibitionism, Fix-It, Innuendo, Jewelry, Listen I Just Want a Soft Epilogue for Them, M/M, Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:34:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24887674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reserve/pseuds/reserve
Summary: Captain Crozier buys Mrs. Crozier a gift.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 41
Kudos: 176





	Décolletage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [icicaille](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icicaille/gifts).



> Many thanks to those who indulged the first iteration of this fic in chat. I just want James to have nice things. But truth be told, as I was working on this I kept thinking of that (paraphrased here) exchange from _Dirty Dancing_ : 
> 
> “Baby’s going to save the world.” 
> 
> “And what’s Lisa going to do?” 
> 
> “Lisa’s going to decorate it.” 
> 
> Anyway, James Fitzjames is capable of both.

An easy Saturday: lingering over tea and kedgeree while Francis scoffed at _The Times_ and James shared choice bits of _The Gazette,_ a publication which Francis no longer deigned to read but which James found impossible to give up despite shared misgivings about their former employers. 

The inevitable, but no less cherished for it, moment when their hands found one another below the table, on the arm of Francis’ chair, and nestled together like a pair of doves, soft and warm. 

“A walk, perhaps?” suggested his love. 

“Why not,” said James, noting the sunshine beyond the lace curtains of their dining room. It looked to be a fine late autumn day. 

Retirement had afforded him and Francis a reasonable dowry, so to speak, most of which was tied up in the fashionable townhouse they now occupied. It just so happened that Francis had also survived a number of his brothers, and their father, and had come into a tidy inheritance himself. To say nothing of the money William had gifted James. And thus, here they sat: a pair of unapologetic sodomites, alive, and in relative style. 

“I’ve been meaning to acquire a new pocket watch,” James said, looking down at his bare waistcoat. “Yours always looks so fetching.” 

“You mean to say you like the way the chain draws attention to my middle.” 

“Your words, not mine.” James smiled. “But dare I say, yes. It makes you look the very picture of authority.” 

Francis returned his smile with a smirk. “Does that vex you?” 

“Not at all, darling.” James squeezed his hand. “It’s a pleasure to remember my place in the _chain_ of command.” 

“Come now.” Francis’ voice was gentle in its reproach and his hand squeezed back, but his gaze, when James met it, was hot. “I know just the shop,” he said, leaving it be for the meantime. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to pick up as well.” 

“Capital,” said James. “We’ll go as soon as we’ve dressed.” 

“As soon as?” Francis lifted a brow. 

“Accommodations could be made for those with other needs,” James allowed, catching another heated look. Francis was always rather rowdy in the morning. It was the byproduct of days when they woke in separate rooms by design. 

But how else, James had argued, were they to have a proper weekend morning repast otherwise? One might think two sailors would be perfectly capable of near silent assignations, but just as Francis had given up _The Gazette_ , he had also abandoned surreptitious coupling.

Francis nodded at James’ folded broadside. “Leave that,” he said. “There's accommodations to be made.” 

James’ undercarriage clenched up unbidden in anticipation. He would never tire of being wanted; it simply wasn’t in his nature. The entire city of London could throw rice on their wedding day and it still wouldn’t satiate the gnawing want he felt for Francis’ regard and affection. This was his cross to bear in life, but now he knew intimately that there were far worse fates. 

Later, and a trifle gingerly, James walked arm in arm with Francis like any reasonable pair of gentlemen might. He used a cane these days—especially needed after being quite so thoroughly seen to—but Francis had made it very clear how much he relished being all the assistance James could need. And so James leaned against him and pretended it was only required because he was oh-so-very-broken from their time North. 

They ambled aimlessly, paying little heed to their surroundings aside from the conversation between them until Francis exclaimed, “Ah! Here we are, then.” 

James peered up at the placard hanging above the door. “Brownstein & Sons?”

“No better craftsmen.” 

“I don’t doubt it.” James shrugged and followed behind when Francis moved past the threshold, a tinkling bell announcing their arrival. It struck James suddenly, and in a way he found vaguely sickening, that of course Francis would have cause to know a passable jeweler, for he had once had a suit of his own, one that would have required a ring. James had never inquired as to what became of it. 

He suspected now was not the time and shook off one of many hauntings. It was better to enjoy the day, to enjoy being in a tidy, well-kept shop surrounded by lovely, well-made things than to let himself be dragged down to the depths of self-doubt yet again. James adjusted his gloves; he tossed his head: a nervous tic, a gingerbread-eaved shutter sliding into place. 

“Is Hiram in?” Francis was asking the knobby, nervous-looking young clerk behind the register. 

“No, sir,” said the boy. “It’s Saturday and—“

“No matter. I bet you’re more than capable.” 

The boy drew himself up to his full height. Francis had that effect on people when he wished it, whether or not he wore his uniform. Even pigeons seemed to strive not to disappoint him. 

“Yes, sir, whatever you require.” 

“A pocket watch,” Francis said, with a sidelong glance at James, “and another clerk so that my friend might look as well.” 

“Of course, just a moment.” The boy, who could be no more than 20, vanished with a cry of “Edwin, come out here,” and returned with another pale youth who quickly moved to assist James. 

From there, it was several long minutes of peering at and assessing jewels while young Edwin sought to discern his tastes. James had always been, by his own estimation, slavishly enamored of the current fashions, but he’d fallen behind of late and felt it was now time to remedy the thing. They were due to be knighted, after all, and he couldn’t show up at her majesty’s doorstep looking like an urchin.

He was inspecting increasingly more ornate cufflinks, holding the little velvet boxes aloft one after another, up to eye level to account for his bad iris, when he couldn’t help but catch a snippet of the conversation his companion was in the midst of. 

“Rather an odd…” the other young clerk was saying, before he coughed lightly, then resumed with dire earnestness. “No disrespect meant, sir, of course, but may I say, a pocket watch is rather an odd gift for a lady.” 

“None taken,” said Francis, all benign comfort. “But then, she is a very _special_ lady.”

“Of this I have no doubt,” said the clerk. 

“Why not show me these brooches here as well,” Francis said, placating and calm. “And have your colleague show my friend some watches. It’s what we’ve come for, after all.” He tapped on the glass with a commanding finger.

The sound plucked at something in James, some funny hidden string. He felt his cheeks flush and turned away, back to the clerk to see more cufflinks and now watches, too. He could hear Francis clucking and making all manner of considering sounds as he reviewed whatever merchandise was placed before him. 

James imagined diamonds. He imagined white gold filigree and delicately wrought porcelain cameos. Rich things, meant for drawing rooms and gilded banquet halls; red, glittering and shining. The heat coloring his cheeks settled somewhere in his chest and warmed him through. 

Eventually, Francis cleared his throat, and James’ blood turned up to a simmer. “What say you, James?” he called, teasing and curious. “Would _Mrs_. Crozier enjoy this piece?”

James willed away the feverish flush that overtook him and worked his face into a careful expression of casual interest. _Mrs. Crozier:_ the words made his toes curl in pleasure and mortification. They had discussed a game like this, but he’d had no warning. He was unprepared. 

One deep breath to steady himself, and James turned. He found Francis pointing to a lovely white gold and red varnish cameo atop the counter, nestled on a silk pillow. Francis’ one beloved and expressive eyebrow pulled up into a devilish arch.

“I imagine she has just the dress for it,” James said, nonchalant as you please. He could barely see the brooch with his damned poor eyesight, but it hardly mattered. 

“Has she now?”

“Oh yes,” said James, levelly. “Though I would not presume to know your lady wife’s dressing room too intimately, I suspect this would be the _pièce de résistance_ of any evening dress.” He lifted his chin, the kind of daring that Francis seldom failed to meet. 

Francis hummed, clearly taken, and turned to the clerk. “The lady and my friend here do share some physical traits. The same, ah, coloring.” He gestured towards James with a careless flick of his hand. “Might I hold this?”

“Certainly, sir.” 

“If it’s not too forward—James, undo your cravat for a moment, there’s a good man, and help a fellow out? I want to be sure she looks stunning. You know how I am. How much I—“ he cleared his throat. 

“No imposition at all, Francis,” James said, low, blood up and stomach fully roiling now. It was exactly as they had discussed, but now actually happening—well beyond the idle talk of two who shared the same set of pillows most nights. 

“Your stock, and one or two shirt buttons should do nicely,” Francis said. His voice had gone rough, a familiar rasp. “Dresses are cut so low these days.” The apology was false and further inflaming to James’ ears. “It is the _fashion_ , after all.”

“Francis,” James warned, fingers obeying anyway. Just the way Francis said _fashion,_ somehow both indulgent and dismissive at once, made James stir. 

“Now, now—I know you wish to please her, too. And you know how cross she can be when displeased.”

Both shop clerks’ eyes widened slightly. 

“Women!” James tossed off with a feeble laugh, fingers trembling. “I imagine,” he said, “that this little display would either please or _infuriate_ Mrs. Crozier. Were she here.”

“Please, I should hope,” Francis murmured. He held the brooch to James’ throat, his pinky finger sliding against the bared, goose pimpled skin James had revealed just so. “I aim only to please. And thrill her. Won’t you appraise my gift on her behalf? Won’t you indulge me?”

Francis had a hopeful, pleading look on his face. It was the same expression he wore when he first asked James if they might—for comfort—share a bedroll. The same expression which had graced his dear features when he first asked if he might taste James’ lips. 

James swallowed. “A looking glass,” he said. “Bring one out?”

One of the clerks—Edwin, James thought—brought out an oval mirror attached to a stand and set it before them before stepping back and perhaps smartly, out of earshot. 

“You are very bold,” James muttered, as Francis skated the brooch over his skin, featherlight and teasing, to stop at the dip just above his breastbone.

“You drive me to it. You’ve only yourself to blame.” 

Francis, James realized, had stepped in close enough beside him that James could feel the heat of his thigh against his own backside, even through his morning jacket. 

Very close to his ear, close enough to hint at impropriety, Francis whispered, “But does Mrs. Crozier like it? Does it _please_ her?” 

“It does look well,” James said. He touched a hand to his throat. Wished for a moment it was a daintier one. Wished that he could cover Francis’ fingers with his own and clasp them to his chest. 

The first shop clerk cleared his throat, but only Francis shifted his attention. James was too entranced by the sight of his own neck adorned, and he took hold of the brooch lest it fall and shatter. Shatter the illusion entire. 

“It’s—it’s a locket,” the clerk said. “You might put a likeness of yourself in there, sir. Or, or perhaps—a lock of hair?”

“Do you think Mrs Crozier would appreciate such a token?” Francis asked. He put both his hands on James’ biceps and rubbed down, once. “A lock of this old man’s thinning hair.” 

“I know she would.” James exhaled, eyes falling shut. He could see himself wearing it pinned at the center of the one gown he owned. He could practically feel Francis admiring him in it once they were safely ensconced in their own home, behind closed doors. He closed his palm over the brooch and let its scalloped edge cut into his skin with a delightful bite. “I imagine she would like nothing more than a piece of you close.”

“A fine lass I married indeed,” Francis said. He squeezed at James once more, an anchor, then dropped away. James felt the loss of his touch acutely.

Francis turned to the clerk, who had decided wisely to busy himself with the tidying of the till. “We’ll—I mean to say, I’ll take it. Whichever watch my friend likes best, and the brooch, too. And be sure to wrap them well. With...with ribbons, if you have them.” 

“That’s too much. You ought—“ James spoke up, still clutching the cameo to himself. 

“Hush now,” Francis said. “A husband’s finances are his own matter.”

“Well, then,” said James, blood hot anew. “Retirement certainly suits you, Captain Crozier.”

Francis raised that charming, infernal eyebrow at him and had the audacity to leer. “Mrs. Crozier thinks so too.”

James could not agree more. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this little story, and would like to share it, here’s a [handy tumblr link.](https://reserve.tumblr.com/post/621773328143859712/d%C3%A9colletage-rated-t-2185-words)
> 
> Edited to say: [here is some beautiful art](https://amatlapal.tumblr.com/post/622556671502401536/commission-for-reserve-a-scene-from-her-awesome) I commissioned for this fic.


End file.
